


Bleu, Blanc et Gold

by Robinjay (Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells)



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Boston, Boston Bruins, Gally Squared - Freeform, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Montreal, Montreal Canadiens, Trades, gallys, the gallys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:13:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7831675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells/pseuds/Robinjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendan Gallagher proposes to Alex Galchenyuk five times. Alex proposes just once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleu, Blanc et Gold

_ One _

 

“So you two are like a package deal right now.”

 

“What?” Brendan gazes sharply up at Prusty over the breakfast table.

 

“You and Chucky. I never see one of you without the other, unless Chucky’s being extra intense about the gym and you’re slacking off.”

 

Brendan shoots a glare at Prusty while deciding which part of the comment to address first. In the end, he decides to begin with the most egregious. “First of all, I’m in there just as much as he is--don’t laugh at me,” he warns, seeing Prusty’s smirk. “Second of all, we do plenty of stuff apart. Just because we room together on the road doesn’t mean we’re glued at the hip.”

 

“You’re right, it doesn’t have to be that way.” Prusty stuffs a large mouthful of eggs into his mouth and begins spewing little chunks of food as he talks, much to Brendan’s disgust. “But you two are basically married. They should just book you guys a king bed in the next hotel.”

 

Brendan wrinkles his nose in distaste “Gross. I would never marry Chucky. He’d never marry me either.”

 

“And how do you know that?”

 

Brendan leans back from the table and shouts, “Hey Chuck!”   
  


“What?” grunts Alex. He keeps his focus fixed on his bacon.

 

“Marry me!” yells Brendan.

 

“Fuck no,” says Alex, then promptly chokes on a mouthful of sausage. Larry pats him rhythmically on the back until the blockage has cleared.

 

Brendan returns to Prust, smiling a little at Alex’s response. It’s week four of the season and something about Alex’s accent still tickles him; he enjoys the way the words rolls off his tongue uncertainly at times. “See? It would never work.” A mischievous glint enters his eyes. “His sister on the other hand…”

 

A low growl emanates from several seats down. “Don’t you fucking touch my sister, Gally.”

 

Brendan winks at Prusty. “Just you wait. She’s way hotter than him.”

 

On this matter, Alex doesn’t disagree.

  
  
  


_ Two _

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be an adult now or something?” quips Alex.

 

Brendan regards Alex with bleary, sleep-crusted eyes. “I’ve always been an adult. You’re the one who still can’t drink in the States.”

 

“I guess adults have shitty alcohol tolerance too. What are you, like, fourteen years old with your first beer?”

 

Brendan tosses his arm dramatically across his face, blocking the weak light peeking in from beneath the shades of the hotel room. “No, you idiot. You saw how much I drank last night. Probably would have killed a fourteen year old.”

 

“In Russia, we drink like that for breakfast.”

 

“You’re not Russian.”

 

“So now you admit it,” crows Alex triumphantly

 

Brendan’s marched straight into the trap, and yet somehow he finds that he simply doesn’t care. “Whatever. You’re not fucking American either, that’s for sure.”

 

Alex puffs out a jet of air in response. Suddenly, a gust of air brings a whiff of something delicious towards Brendan’s nose, and he lifts his arm ever so slightly. In Alex’s hands sit two steaming cups of hot liquid, and God, Brendan hopes it’s coffee.

 

“I hope you don’t mind if your coffee is American,” says Alex, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Marry me, Chuck,” says Brendan, accepting the proffered drink and cradling it in his hands like he would his firstborn child. He sips the tiniest amount of liquid from the surface of the cup, and yes it is coffee, and yes it is the best thing he’s ever tasted, hands down.

 

Alex grimaces. “You need to shower. No one will want to marry you right now.”

 

Brendan sniffs his armpit and decides he needs to agree with Alex on this matter. “So that’s a no to my proposal?”

 

“Yes, it’s a no.” He places his own insulated cup on the nightstand and flops back on his own bed. “And it might be a no to this friendship unless you shower in the next five minutes.”

 

“Jerk,” mutters Brendan, but he does shower, because while Alex may not be right about most things, he’s definitely hit this one on the nail. Plus, if he showers quickly, the coffee will still be piping hot when he emerges. It is a delicious cup of coffee after all. 

  
  


_ Three _

 

“You know, if you actually wanted to win for a change, you could just marry me and play for Canada.”

 

Alex flips over the page in his book, unfazed by Brendan’s question. “And why would I want to play for Canada?”

 

“Like I said, because then you might have actual shot at winning.”

 

Alex is sprawled out lazily across the large, black leather couch in Brendan’s apartment, perusing Brendan’s copy of Ty Domi’s autobiography. They’re both several beers into the night, which normally wouldn’t be enough to render either of them tipsy, but this season has not been kind to them so far, and exhaustion works in synchronization with the alcohol. Brendan’s feeling, if not drunk, then at least a tad giddy.

 

“America will win Worlds,” says Alex with entirely misplaced confidence. “We just feel bad for you Canadians sometimes, you know, since we’re ahead of you in everything else.”

 

“Like gun deaths and religious nutjobs?” Alex glares at him. “If I’m wrong, then say so.”

 

Alex ignores him studiously and returns to his book with an expression of intense focus. Brendan taps the side of his chair impatiently, already bored. He feels reckless and invincible, a dangerous combination, but a heady mixture too. He’s definitely about to say something he’ll regret the next morning.

 

“Well, if you change your mind and decide to stick with Canada, the offer still stands.”

 

“I can get my own Canadian citizenship if I want. I don’t need to marry you.” Alex scrunches up his face in displeasure. “Not sure why I would want to either.”

 

“No one, man or woman, can resist all of this,” says Brendan, gesturing to his entire body. He’s projecting as much confidence, as much swagger into this assertion as possible. “Come on, just admit it.”

 

For the first time in this conversation, Alex meets Brendan’s eyes. It’s like an electric shock to his system, heat radiating off of his gaze, and Brendan can’t decide if he’s hallucinating or if something has changed. Maybe this sensation has been present the entire time, smoldering quietly in the corner of his mind. Brendan gulps, feeling at once entirely sober and entirely lost.

 

“I’m not marrying you, Gally,” he says evenly.

 

_ But you didn’t deny wanting me _ , thinks Brendan. And maybe he’s overthinking it, maybe he’s reading far too much into what is technically a rejection, maybe this is simply a momentary flash of inexplicable emotion in an exhausted, overworked body.

 

Alex has flecks of silver in his stormy blue-gray eyes, and before he knows it, Brendan’s plunging in with reckless abandon.

 

It’s definitely not a flash. 

  
  
  


_ Four _

 

“No. No, no, no, no, no!” Brendan stamps his foot firmly into the floor. “Please tell me you’re joking. Please, please tell me this isn’t real.”

 

“Why would I be joking?” Alex says heavily, staring into the floor. He appears lost in the lines and angles of the wooden planks.

 

“I don’t know, maybe Russian April Fool’s day comes in February. How the fuck should I know?”

 

“I’m not joking, Brendan. I’m being traded to Boston.”

 

The use of Brendan’s first name alone is enough to convey the seriousness of the conversation. Brendan has never been “Brendan” to Alex. He’s always been “Gally” or “shitface” or “fucker” or “pest.” Never Brendan. It’s the first sign of change, and Brendan detests every square inch of it.

 

“There’s got to be a way to stop it,” says Brendan, collapsing next to Alex on the couch. “Don’t you have, like, a no-movement clause?”

 

“Doesn’t kick in until next year,” says Alex robotically. Brendan imagines he’s already thought through every possible scenario, every possible method of avoiding this Godforsaken trade, and failed. But Brendan hasn’t yet, and he’s always been the smarter of the two, at least in his opinion.

 

“What did management tell you? Did they say why you were going? Maybe there’s something we could change…”

 

Alex scuffs the floor with his foot. “Not likely. The Bruins have something the Habs need, and they’re only willing to make the trade if I’m involved.” He flashes a pained, crooked smile. “Who would have thought Boston was so desperate to have me?”

 

“They don’t deserve you,” said Brendan. “There’s got to be a way.”

 

Alex sighs heavily, and he sounds weary and exhausted in a way Brendan’s never seen before, not even in the midst of their most grueling playoff series. “Believe me, if there were, I’d have thought of it by now. They’re announcing the trade tomorrow, and I’m shipping out to Boston the next day.”

 

Brendan lingers in the quiet of the room for a while, the whirring of his own mind easily louder than the soft steady click of the heater or the gentle snores of Maxi as she lies asleep on her doggy bed, blissfully unaware that her life is about to be upended. And Alex’s whole family is in Montreal, all of his friends, but none of that matters to a business like the Canadiens. There’s no legal obligation to keep a player in the place where he’s built his whole life.

 

Unless…

 

“What if they couldn’t move you? What if there were some sort of legal contract binding you to the Habs?”

 

Alex snorts. “You mean like a no-trade clause? We just covered this.”

 

“No, I mean like a contract with the person. Like if, say, you were married to someone in the organization.”

 

Alex lolls his head to the side, eyeing Brendan skeptically. “So, what, you want me to marry Jenny at the front desk? Because that would totally keep them from trading me.”

 

“What if you married me?” A pause. No response from Alex. “I’m serious, is there a protocol for married players? I mean, it’s never happened before and you could make the argument that it’s unethical to split up a married couple, or something like that.”

 

“You’re actually asking me to marry you?” says Alex evenly.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?” Brendan shrugs--he feels like it ought to be obvious. “Seriously, why? We’ve all had friends traded before. I mean, Prusty, PK, Devante, Larry--all of them were our friends. Unless I’m missing something, you didn’t offer to marry them to keep them here.”

 

“This is different,” mumbles Brendan.

 

“How is different? Were they not your friends too? Did you want to see them go?”

 

“It’s different because it’s you!” he cries. “I cared about all of the guys, but none of them were you. I wasn’t in--” he cuts himself off sharply. “It wasn’t the same.”

 

“And do I mean more to you than the rest of those guys?”

 

“Yes.” Brendan doesn’t even bother trying to deny it. He doesn’t think he could, at this point--he’s always worn his emotions openly, broadcasting them on all airwaves for everyone to see. And Alex would know if lied because Alex knows him better than anyone else in the world.

 

“Why?” says Alex. A note of anger enters his voice. “Tell me why, Brendan.”

 

“Because I’m in love with you, okay? I’m in love with your stupid face and stupid beard and stupid voice and stupid jokes and I don’t think I can imagine a world where I don’t get to see you every day of my life, okay? Was that what you wanted to hear?”

 

Alex bites his lower lip, and the fifteen seconds of silence (and it is fifteen seconds, because Brendan’s counting every goddamn one of them) stretch endlessly, bending the rules of space-time and aging him in that span of time more than he thinks he’s aged in his entire life of rough, hard hockey.

 

Finally, Alex speaks, and when he does, he speaks barely above a whisper. “I’m not marrying you. It wouldn’t keep them from trading me.”

 

Brendan looks at him incredulously. “Is that all you have to say? I just poured my fucking heart out to you, and that’s all you have to say? The trade?”

 

Brendan’s fairly certain Alex might actually punch a hole in his lower lip with his teeth. In fact, the cushion of his beard is likely the only thing protecting him. Alex’s stormy eyes are opaque when he meets Brendan’s gaze.

 

“Does it matter what I say in return? I’m leaving in two days time for Boston.”

 

“It matters to me.”

 

Alex looks away. “I can’t. I’m leaving and starting with a new team and it’s the  _ Bruins _ . I can’t say anything right now. I can’t make it any harder on myself, or on you, which is the only thing that would happen if I did.”

 

Quite frankly, Brendan can’t imagine the situation being any worse in that moment. For so long he’s been treading water, fighting against the currents and the waves battering him on either end, the nagging, whispering thoughts telling him he’s a fool for loving Alex, a fool for hoping he could be loved in return. And now, when at last there should be hope, he just feels like he’s drowning.

 

“Boston’s not so far, eh?” says Brendan. He tries to project confidence and his usual Gallagher charm, but even he hears how flat his voice sounds in the hollow atmosphere around them. “And this means no holding back when I play you now.”

 

“Never,” says Alex, his voice rough and hoarse, like he’s been sucking on sandpaper. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

And he reaches for Brendan’s hand.

  
  
  


_ Five _

 

Brendan waits a year and half after Alex leaves. He finishes the season without Chucky and then, because he’s contractually obligated to do so, he plays another year of hockey in Montreal surrounded by the people who have been there with him for years, have supported him and coached him and played with him and drank with him and cried with him. 

 

On July first, nearly sixteen months after Alex Galchenyuk was traded from Montreal, Brendan Gallagher signs a four year deal with the Bruins and doesn’t look back. 

 

On July second, he shows up at Alex’s front door with a suitcase in one hand and his heart in another.

 

“I tried calling you,” says Alex when he opens the door. “I’m pretty sure I called you six times yesterday.”

 

“I turned my phone on silent,” says Brendan.

 

“You didn’t say a word about this to me before. You didn’t tell me you were signing with Boston.”

 

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he says. “I knew what I had to do.”

 

Alex seems torn between his emotions, and Brendan sees frustration and anger and hurt and hope and joy and maybe even a little bit of love. Brendan hopes he’s not imagining the last one, especially considering the act of reckless, dangerous foolishness he’s about to perform.

 

“So now what?” Alex asks the question like a challenge, and Brendan’s never been one to back away from one of those.

 

He drops to one knee. “Alex Galchenyuk, will you marry me?” He doesn’t have a ring to present, but if Alex is going to say yes, he doesn’t think a little thing like a ring will hold him back.

 

“No,” says Alex, and the crushing sensation which follows, the feel of being trapped beneath a two ton boulder or the weight of the ocean itself, isn’t something Brendan thinks he will ever forget. But Alex isn’t done. “I’m not going to marry you because I’ve never even dated you. Jesus, Gally, it’s polite to buy a guy dinner at least once before proposing him.”

 

“I’ve bought you dinner plenty of times,” protests Brendan.

 

“Takeout and birthday dinners don’t count,” says Alex, and, okay, fair. “Call me old-fashioned, but I like to kiss someone before I agree to spend the rest of my life with them.”

 

“Oh,” says Brendan, then looks up hesitantly. “Are you saying you’ll kiss me then?”

 

Alex rolls his eyes but doesn’t hesitate. He kisses Brendan right there at his doorstep, hands cupping his face, beard rough against Brendan’s cheek. Brendan release both his suitcase and his heart and pours himself, pours the last year and a half, and the year before that, and all of the years he’s known Alex and even the ones B.C. (before Chucky) into this kiss. He feels like sea foam across a wave, dissolving in the salty air. He feels like a sprout, curling upwards towards the warm sunlight. He feels like a tree, grounded at last in the sensation of Alex’s mouth against his, of his hands on his face, of their bodies pressed together in the humid Boston summer. 

 

When Alex tries to pull away, Brendan bites on his lower lip  to keep him there. Alex chuckles against his lips and lingers a moment before finally separating. His mouth is red and wet, and if Brendan’s sure his cheeks are reddened too from beard burn. They feel raw, at the very least. 

 

“So no,” continues Alex conversationally, as if they hadn’t just spent the past five minutes making out in the hallway of Alex’s apartment building, “I’m not going to marry you. But only because I want to date you first.”

 

And that, Brendan decides, is a compromise he can live with.

  
  
  


_ One _

 

When the buzzer echoes throughout TD Garden, Brendan thinks there are black spots flashing before his eyes before he realizes that it’s just his teammates mobbing him. Well, not just him; everyone on the ice is flying at each other in a violently joyous free for all. 

 

“We won! We won! We won! Gally, we won!” 

 

Brendan knows that voice. He’d recognize it a mile under the ocean or a mile above ground in the air. Over the long years they’ve known each other, Alex’s accent has softened, and he stumbles over fewer words than he did their first season together. Perhaps it’s the emotion of the moment or the the fact that his brain has simply shut off (Brendan’s is certainly firing on half his usual cylinders) but Alex sounds just his like he did rookie year with his Russian accent as thick as it’s ever been. 

 

Then he’s being lifted from behind, and Brendan can’t control the maniacal laughter which escapes him because this is it, this is greatest moment of his life. He’d always envisioned wearing the  _ bleu, blanc et rouge _ when he lifted the Stanley Cup over his head, but after three years, he’s willing to admit that black and gold has its merits. And more importantly, Alex is beside him, an offensive juggernaut, an alternate captain for the Bruins, and the love of Brendan’s life. When his skates finally touch the ground again, he turns around and pulls Alex into the tightest embrace, squeezing him until his arms have the strength of wet noodles and his voice is already hoarse from shouting.

 

“We did it, Chucky,” he says, panting with excitement. “We fucking did it.”

 

Alex looks like he very much wants to kiss him in that moment, and for a second, Brendan considers just doing it, ignoring the fact that there are twenty-thousand screaming fans who would bear witness. He settles for a gentle helmet tap, and a promise of things to come later, in the privacy of their own home. 

 

Bergeron is named the Conn Smythe winner, and even though Brendan thinks Alex had his fair shot, he’d never begrudge the man who welcomed him so kindly three years ago and who’d taken over the mantle of captain only two seasons before following Chara’s retirement. He cheers as Bergy lifts first the Conn Smythe, then the Stanley Cup before passing it on to Raask.

 

Alex receives the Cup third, and then he hands it off to Backes. If Brendan’s being honest, there’s a tiny twinge of disappointment that Alex didn’t pass the cup on to him, but focusing on such a trivial detail seems far too petty for such a wonderful, glorious moment. It doesn’t take long for the Cup to reach him anyways. Backes passes the shining, gleaming Stanley Cup to Krejci, who hands it Marchand and when Marchand skates towards Brendan, he knows it’s his turn.

 

The Cup weighs thirty pounds and nothing at all. It’s made of solid silver and the hopes and dreams of hundreds before him and hundreds after. The home crowd is a noiseless, deafening blur in his ears as he hears only the blood rushing through his head, feels only the cool metal in his hands, sees only black and gold and the white ice beneath him. Then his turn has ended, and he finds Tory Krug, one of his teammates who, despite his initial hesitations, has grown to be one of his dearest friends in Boston.

 

He hands over the cup, arms floating with the loss of the weight, turns around, and nearly falls over on his skates as all the breath in his body leaves his lungs in one, heaving exhale.

 

Alex is kneeling before him on one knee, a small black box open to reveal a band of entwined silver and gold. He’s smiling through his beard, and unless Brendan’s mistaking the moisture on his face for something else, he’s crying too.

 

“Brendan Gallagher,” says Alex Galchenyuk. “Will you marry me? Finally?”

 

“Finally?” exclaims Brendan. “I’m the one who proposed to you! More than once if I recall correctly!”

 

Alex’s smile just broadens. “Which is definitely a good sign for me, but I’d still appreciate it if you could actually say the words.”

 

Brendan blinks away something from his eyes, which have suddenly become very blurry. He can barely see Alex through the moisture clouding his vision, but he doesn’t need to see clearly in this moment. He’s seen Alex a thousand different ways in a thousand different moments, and he’s loved every single one.

 

“Yes,” he says, nodding vigorously. “Yes, I will.”   
  


Alex tears off Brendan’s glove and slides the ring on his finger. Then, in front of the roaring, jubilant Boston crowd and in front of his teammates and in front of the entire world, Brendan kisses Alex on the ice. 

 

And he forgives Alex for rejecting him all those times because this, this is the pinnacle of his life and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I have them playing for Boston. Yes I am a Bruins fan. Fight me.


End file.
